


Ruins, Once Possessed

by keelywolfe



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Crazy Eyes Thorin, Dark, Dark Thorin, M/M, Rough Sex, spoilers for hobbit trailer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:30:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>pos·ses·sive: adj: showing a desire to own things and an unwillingness to share what one already owns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ruins, Once Possessed

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I actually wrote a story based on the scene from the trailer. The idea woke me up from a sound sleep this morning and here is the result. I owe thanks, as always, to Greenkey who keeps me from giving up when I think a story isn't working. Ta!

* * *

The mountain was not what Bilbo had expected. 

If he were to think on it, Bilbo supposed that he'd had no idea what to expect. He'd seen little caves, hardly more than gullies that he'd explored as a child with wide-eyed wonder, wandering home with his pockets full of pebbles and treasures that he had found. He'd seen the Goblin's caves and with them, the cavern that had housed that wretched creature, waded through mucky water and come out filthy at the other side. And the majestic caves of the Kingdom of Thranduil, and prison though it had been, Bilbo could not be blind to its grandeur. 

Sitting curled up against a ruined pile of stone that had once been a wall, Bilbo looked at all of Erebor that lay before him and saw only the skeleton of magnificence, the ruined glory that perched upon its corpse. The rank smell of dragon still hung about them, haunting them with its ghost and Bilbo hunched into his coat, feeling as though the malevolent gaze of the serpent was still upon him. 

A few coins lay close to his feet, cast free from the piles of treasure that surrounded them. The seal upon them was not one he recognized, Dwarven or Man, he knew not, and with gnawing spite, he kicked them away, their clear chime against the stone floor echoing around them. 

The sound drew not a glance from his companion, seated not far away. Or perhaps that was too fond a word, for Thorin was not good company, leaning against the wall and silently brooding. His sword lay across his knees, hardly the gesture of a trusting ally.

Bilbo sighed and rubbed wearily at his eyes, "You are exhausted, you should get some rest."

"I do not ask for your counsel," Thorin said, distractedly. 

"Once you would have accepted it happily enough," Bilbo snapped, stung. Not all that terribly long ago Thorin had been impatient for Bilbo's advice, avid for words spoken between the bars in the Elven prison. He bit back the rest, catching his tongue between his teeth to keep them from spilling angrily out into the air. The memory of a sword pressed to his chest, of eyes with darkness in their depths upon him, prompted caution.

The others were a fair bit away, their occasional snatches of conversation echoing through the cavern. They would not come over here, Bilbo thought; none of them would approach Thorin with anything less than the stone held before them. Perhaps Balin may, for his glances at the would-be, very-nearly King had been grave with concern. Dwalin, too; he might very well dare. 

The others, well, Bilbo had seen less concern from them and more of something like fear. They would not venture over. 

That left Bilbo here with Thorin, alone, and any moment he expected to be ordered tersely back to the search, never mind that it was useless, that the stone would never be found in any pile of gold, not when it was secreted away in Bilbo's pack, tucked into the pocket of his old trousers and folded carefully to look like nothing but rumpled clothes. He hadn’t dared keep it on his person and his pack was no safer and yet…he couldn't give it to Thorin. Not…not yet.

Bilbo might not have bothered stifling his angry words. He wasn't entirely sure Thorin had heard him at all. His gaze wandered, restlessly, over wrecked masonry and fallen stones, lingering over the piles of gold as though his stare might force one to vomit up that glittery jewel. 

The depths of his stare might burn, but what Bilbo saw was that Thorin's eyes were red-rimmed with exhaustion, his hands had a tremor that spoke of meals spent picking at his meager bowl of food rather than eating it. Rest and a decent breakfast might not be a cure for Thorin's troubles but surely it would make him more _reasonable_ , something that Thorin had been sorely lacking in the past few days. 

Frustration was fast overcoming Bilbo's caution and he clambered to his feed, striding over to Thorin with his overlong coat swishing against his legs as he began, "Thorin, you are exhausted, you really should—urk!"

Later, he would have chance to be grateful that Thorin had not reached for his sword, that whatever threat Bilbo had awoken in him was more along the lines of batting at a bothersome fly rather than beheading a goblin. At the moment, he was too busy breathing through clenched teeth at Thorin's grip around his wrist, dragging him down to his knees until they were at a level. 

Well, he certainly had Thorin's full attention now, Bilbo thought with dark amusement. Once, Bilbo had thought Thorin's gaze as cold, pale blue eyes that could glare chilly hatred as easily as they offered icy contempt and, more rarely, cool amusement. 

No longer; the eyes that bore into Bilbo's now were an inferno. They blazed, inner heat unbanked and whatever emotion they held now, Bilbo did not dare think. He only knelt, wrist aching and chin up, watching as Thorin sneered at him. 

"I said, I do not need your counsel," Thorin said, shortly, and he flung Bilbo's wrist aside. Dismissing him. 

No, not counsel, words were useless as Balin had learned. Thorin needed something else entirely, something to break through his growing distance, he needed it before he was lost and Bilbo was perhaps not entirely himself, either. His own exhaustion left him giddy, his guilt at concealing the stone gnawed, and he could only stand by helplessly, watching Thorin spiral downward into darkness.

Helpless, yes, he felt nothing so much as helpless, and it was his own inner turmoil that shredded the last vestiges of his caution and sent him surging forward. His mouth glanced against Thorin's bruisingly hard, a crash of teeth behind lips as Bilbo stubbornly mashed their mouths together, his fists clenched in Thorin's ragged shirt. As if he could possibly hold him, as if one Hobbit's strength was enough to cage whatever wildness was seeping through Thorin's thin, cracked veneer.

His own teeth cut into his lips as Bilbo persisted, his panicked breaths loud as he breathed through his nose in ragged blurts. It was like kissing stone, he thought wildly, and every fable he'd ever heard about Dwarves tumbled into his thoughts; cut from the very stone of the mountains and they would return there in their ends, return to the hard, cold rock to sleep, and Thorin was unmoving beneath him, a cold, unmoved statue and—

The world went tipsy-turvy around him, the ground hard beneath his back and Bilbo's breath was driven from him, his mouth sore and free. For a dizzy moment he thought Thorin had thrust him away, _pushed_ him away, with enough force to send him sprawling on the floor. He had time for regret, that his once chance at a kiss, at _something_ , had been lost in a spat of angry impulse, and now that chance would never come again, he would never be allowed so close and Thorin would be past his reach, past any reach. 

Then he looked up to see Thorin above him, the heat in his eyes was not as it had been, not

(insanity)

it was a heat that Bilbo knew, one that had been building between them for quite some time, kindled in glances and touches, and now ignited. It had sparked in the prison, perhaps, or after the spiders. Since they'd embraced, sore and bleeding, atop the great Carrock. Or before that, perhaps it had been building since the very moment Bilbo had seen this Dwarf, this would-be King, since he had seen Thorin standing on his doorstep. 

Bilbo's gasp was caught in a hard mouth against his own and there was no stone now, no unyielding coldness. Thorin's mouth was fierce, brutal, and already Bilbo's mouth was raw, hurting, bruised by his own anger and now by the lust he could nearly taste. The scrape of beard against his own bare cheeks was near-painful, the teeth that caught his lips and bit, too-hard, even more so and Bilbo only whimpered, sinking his hands into Thorin's hair and urging him to take more. This Bilbo could offer and if this is what Thorin needed, then so be it.

Dimly, Bilbo realized that Thorin was heavy, his weight pushing Bilbo into the floor and making him aware of a dozen tiny rocks digging into his back. Easily ignored, there was no space for fussing over little discomforts and Thorin was larger than he expected somehow, a hugeness past body and height. His hands moved over Bilbo restlessly, gripping too-hard, leaving bruises in their passing as they slid over arms and sides, down to his hips. Hands that were used to Dwarven sturdiness dug into him, and he winced at the touches, flinched at the harsh kisses he was given. 

Rough, yes, but each touch left heat in its passing. The little hurts did not hurt _enough_ , only left Bilbo panting, gasping wordlessly for more, clinging to Thorin with desperate hands, his heels scrabbling uselessly at the rocky floor. 

A small voice, the very self-same one that had told Bilbo at the very beginning of this quest that he was a fool to leave behind his home and hearth, shrilled at him that this was madness. Literal madness, and Thorin was panting for breath, the heavy gusts of it damp against Bilbo's face before his mouth was taken again in a pained kiss. Madness, you are as mad as he, that voice squealed and Bilbo pushed it fiercely aside, accepting Thorin's mouth however it was to be given.

Strong hands moved over him with purpose, tugging at his clothing, seams straining as Thorin yanked and pulled, ridding him of coat and shirt. Bunched beneath him they made for meager padding against the stone and left him with no barrier at all against the cold. Balin had mentioned in passing that once the great forges had heated the mountain; no longer, there was nothing but the deep chill and the lingering stench of dragon. 

Shivering, Bilbo started as Thorin swept rough hands over newly bared skin. His palms were callused, years of work and swordsmanship had left them coarse, and Thorin was not gentle in his touches. His hands moved urgently, grasping at Bilbo's upper arms, his fingers digging in, then lower, down the softness of his belly to wrench at the fastening of his breeches. 

A choked gasp wheezed out from Bilbo's tight throat, caught up in realization as Thorin jerked his belt loose and his trousers were dragged down and cast aside. It left him naked, bare before Thorin's eyes and Bilbo kept his own closed. He didn't think he could bear it, to see his own nakedness here with Thorin still clothed above him. 

Thorin's hand was no gentler as it wrapped around the firmness of Bilbo's cock where it rose between his legs, his thumb grazing the tip. He gave a few quick strokes, enough to leave Bilbo shaking, arching into it, then his hands caught at Bilbo's knees, tugging them upward and apart, leaving him exposed, barer still. 

Thorin meant to _have_ him, Bilbo realized, need and terror mingling thickly at the back of his throat. Already he could hear the heavy clink of Thorin's belt as he opened his own trousers, his legs spread wide as Thorin knelt between them.

A broad finger prodded lightly at his backside, sliding between the soft cheeks to press against the tiny opening. Far too dry and Bilbo whimpered aloud, for the first time squirming away. Uselessly, Thorin only grabbed his hips and dragged him back, the rocky ground scraping his shoulders and Bilbo fought feebly, hopelessly, pushing at Thorin like pushing at the very walls. 

It would hurt, it would hurt, he would tear and bleed if Thorin took him thusly and words that had eluded him came tumbling free as Thorin lifted him higher, begging Thorin to wait, a moment, wait, wait, not yet—

"Ahh!" Bilbo wailed aloud, jolting with the shock of it as coarse beard scraped his backside a moment before the wetness of Thorin's mouth found him. Slick heat, his tongue curling wetly against the little opening and Bilbo's thighs parted of their own accord. He braced a foot against Thorin's shoulder, no longer struggling away only using the leverage to arch up into the hot push of tongue against him.

It would not be enough, thin spit only a little more than useless and Bilbo whimpered again as Thorin pressed a rough finger into him, licking at the stretched pink skin around it. Pain-pleasure warred within him, words useless, and Bilbo hissed as that finger withdrew, uncertain if he was relieved or disappointed. 

The feel of Thorin pulling away made him pry his eyes open and Bilbo watched through his lashes as Thorin rooted through their paltry supplies, searching for Bilbo knew not what. He found it quickly enough and crawled back over, a clumsy shuffle that left Bilbo torn between tremulous laughter and cringing. There was a soft popping sound, a cork tugged loose, then the glug of liquid, the quietly wet sound of it over skin. 

Then broad fingers found him again, this time slick with oil, and Bilbo made a feeble little sound as one pushed deep into him, inside where no one and nothing had ever been. Invading him, taking him, painless where Bilbo had feared agony. Instead, it grazed something within him that drew a choked, sobbing gasp from Bilbo's throat, one that he hadn't meant to escape. An unexpected throb of pleasure and Bilbo lurched up into the touch he had once cringed from, every nerve afire. 

Above him, Thorin laughed unsteadily, pressing in again, an unsettling rhythm that Bilbo followed and just when his peak seemed to be within reach, he drew out. Bilbo had no chance to protest, his breath leaving him in a rush as he was abruptly flipped onto his belly. His hips were pillowed on Thorin's roughly bundled coat and there was no time to do more than steady himself on his knees before Thorin was on him, the hot press against his backside much larger, pushing insistently into him with driving force that tore a low cry from Bilbo's throat. 

"Relax," Thorin grunted above him, his voice thick and broken and Bilbo only shook his head, gasping, everything stretched and taut within him. "Relax," Thorin repeated, insisting, and the stretch inside bordered on pain. "Do not fight me, you'll only hurt yourself."

"I'm not," Bilbo gasped, tasting his own sweat beading on his upper lip. "I'm not, don't—"

"You are," Thorin crooned it, gentler than Bilbo would have thought possible and his hand drifted from Bilbo's hip, grazing down his belly to where his cock hung heavy between his legs. He stroked Bilbo with oddly tender fingers, wringing tension away and no sooner had Bilbo eased did he push in again, cramming his hugeness inward. Each hard-won inch taken the moment Bilbo gave it. An endless, eternal moment of simply being taken and Bilbo was panting, cheek pressed to the stony floor. So much of it, deep within him, deeper than he'd thought possible, and when Thorin finally stilled inside him, he was pressed hard to that something, that pleasure spot that left Bilbo struggling to breathe. 

"Oh, please," Bilbo whispered, weakly, a faint cry escaping him as Thorin shifted above him, prodding against that spot. He did not truly move, only leaned down, bracing on one elbow, and Bilbo felt damp breath against the back of his neck, followed by lips. Gentler kisses by far than those that had been offered to his mouth and Bilbo moaned aloud, his head dropping down on his folded arms as teeth grazed his nape.

A tender flick of tongue against the thin skin there, words blurred into his skin, darkly whispered, Thorin's voice a deep well of harsh need wrapped around a language that Bilbo did not understand. All the while he held terribly still, his hips pressed firm to Bilbo's backside, the faint chafe of his trousers against the insides of Bilbo's thighs and he only held there. 

"Please," Bilbo whimpered again, struggling against Thorin's weight, trying to arch his hip entreatingly. Uselessly, he was pinned, breached, _taken_ and he could no more move Thorin than the mountain itself. 

"Do you want this?" Thorin ground out, suddenly, close to Bilbo's ear, his voice, so deep and broken, heavy with unnamed emotion. Stupid, useless question; whether he had or not, it was entirely too late for a choice even if he'd been given one. Doubly useless because the answer was yes, yes, always yes. It was the only answer Bilbo had ever been able to give him.

"Yes," Bilbo managed a mere thread of sound and he felt Thorin growl in reply, felt it deep within. "Yes," Bilbo hissed, again, "Yes," and it was no answer but affirmation as Thorin finally moved, a tiny hitch of his hips out and then in. Again, deeper this time, almost fast enough to burn and Bilbo could only sob out hard breaths as Thorin found a rhythm. It did hurt, just a little, even with the oil slicking the way, but the hard drive of Thorin within him was better than any feeble dream. 

Too real, far too real, too much to hear, the wet, slick sound of Thorin moving inside him, the sharp slap of his hips against Bilbo's backside, and the sounds Thorin made, deep and wretched, sounds of need and desperation and desire. One large hand worked beneath Bilbo, dragging him up higher on his knees and both of them cried out at the change of angle, oh, so much deeper, so much and Bilbo could feel gravel and grit beneath his cheek, could hear Thorin breathing heavier, his rhythm doubling, the force of his thrusts rocking Bilbo against the stony floor. 

His hips stuttered, slowed, and to Bilbo it seemed as if he swelled inside him, filling him with hot, obscene wetness and Thorin groaned through his teeth, hips jerking as he came. The hand at his hip fumbled, searching and finding Bilbo's straining length and Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut, as Thorin stroked him, quick, sharp jerks of his hand and Bilbo clenched around the hardness still deep within him, came to the feel of teeth set gently against the nape of his neck and wetness already slicking down his inner thighs, aching pleasure driven into him. 

His trembling knees couldn't possibly have held only him, much less the sudden heavy weight of a Dwarf slumped against his back and Bilbo collapsed down into the crumpled mess of their clothing, trapping Thorin's slick hand against his belly. 

Well. That had been…quite….Bilbo swallowed thickly, his scattered thoughts past any speech at the moment. Just as well that Thorin offered no words of his own, only sighed deeply, his breath stirring Bilbo's hair. Long tendrils of his own hair slithered down Bilbo's shoulder and wavered against his nose ticklishly, and Bilbo batted the long curls away, rifling through a lifetime of polite language in search of the proper phrase to ask Thorin if he might get off him now. 

Sound carried in the cavern and the scrape of a boot had Bilbo wrenching his eyes open. It was dim inside the mountain, too few torches in too much space, but he just now he could see clearly enough. It was Bofur who stood frozen only a few paces away, his eyes ghostly wide as he took in the sight and Bilbo could imagine easily enough what he was seeing. Thorin still atop Bilbo, more clothed than not and Bilbo so obviously naked. Thorin was still inside him, no longer quite so massive, but there, aching within him and Bofur still stood there, staring.

He'd been wrong, the others had come looking. No. No, he'd been half-right, half-wrong, Bofur had not come looking for Thorin but for Bilbo, and he'd found them both.

"What do you want?" Came from above him, _growled_ from above him and Bilbo cringed, turned his face deeper into the gravelly floor. 

"I…" Bofur began and Bilbo knew at once he'd come to tell Bilbo that there was food, a makeshift luncheon cobbled together for them all share before continuing on a vain search for a stone that was not so lost as any of them thought. 

"Get out of my sight," A low, furious whisper somehow all the more terrifying for its quiet and Bofur nodded hastily, backing away, and Bilbo wondered at what he'd thought he saw. If he'd seen Bilbo cringing and bruised, and he'd still left…

It was telling, Bilbo supposed distantly, so very telling that he'd still been left alone. 

A soft kiss on the back of his head, nuzzled into his hair interrupted that line of thought and Thorin shifted above him, drawing a hiss from them both as he finally withdrew. Bilbo stifled a groan as his pains made themselves known now that the tide of pleasure had passed. His thighs ached, every bruise throbbing to life and his backside didn’t bear thinking of. Bilbo drew his legs up, sitting gingerly, his shirt over his lap in some useless overture of modestly. 

Thorin had only needed to refasten his trousers, Bilbo noted with no little resentment, though it was difficult to cling to his irritation when large palms cupped his face, tilting his head up for a startlingly gentle kiss. A tender press of lips, mindful of his bruises, and Bilbo sighed aloud, basking in the rare affection. 

"Thorin," Bilbo began, clearing his throat as it came out in a cracked whisper, "Thorin," he began again, "Shall we get some rest now?"

Already Thorin had turned away from him, looking out to where the others searched. "You should," he said distractedly and when Bilbo began to protest, Thorin hushed him with a quick press of lips, "Aye, you should, I do not want you ill from lack of sleep."

"Ill…Thorin…!" Bilbo sputtered, and he could only watch in dismay as Thorin rolled to his feet and strode away, leaving Bilbo naked and wretchedly alone in the little alcove. He struggled to make sense of it, frustrated and chilly and sore; Thorin wouldn't take his own rest but now he'd worry about Bilbo's? Utter nonsense, why would he--

"Oh," Bilbo moaned aloud, because he'd gotten it wrong, so terribly wrong. Perhaps if he'd seen Thorin expression when Bofur had stumbled upon them he'd have known then, but he hadn't, he hadn't and all he'd done was make things worse. He'd given Thorin yet another thing to be possessive about, one more thing to cling to fiercely and Bilbo had no doubt that soon the others would hardly be able to dare speaking to him, much less assisting him in the foolhardy plan he'd been cobbling together.

Slowly, moving like an old man, Bilbo drew his clothing back on and he could hear shouts now, surely Thorin raging at the others once again, demanding that the stone be found. Bilbo thought of the Arkenstone, hidden away in his dirty laundry and wondered, not for the first time, just what he could possibly do. 

 

-finis-


End file.
